The Goldfish
by rosierolo
Summary: This is written for Teagan. She gave me the prompt of 'goldfish'. This is what I done did write.


Sherlock stared at the goldfish floating lifelessly at the top of the glass fishbowl. Its eyes had turned a misty grey, its mouth open as if it was taking its last final gasp for air. But poor Mr Fish had breathed his last underwater breath. Sherlock gave the fish a prod with his index finger back into the water, as if he were convincing it that it was, in fact, still alive. The stiff fish floated back up to the top of the bowl, where it continued to float, deceased.  
>Sherlock felt a slight sense of panic. This wasn t his fish. Why on earth would he want a fish? No, Sherlock had somehow won this fish when he and John had found themselves at a fair a couple of months back. Sherlock was asked to guess the age of the man who was obviously fourty-six, married without children and having it off behind the ferris wheel with one of the fortune tellers. And for this, he was given a goldfish. And this goldfish was then given to John when Sherlock informed him he had no need for it, and there were no lakes, rivers, or water fountains nearby.<p>

John soon named the fish Mr Fish , he was never one for names, and Mr Fish lived on the fireplace, next to Sherlock s treasured skull. Sometimes, when Sherlock was sleeping on the settee, he could hear John whispering to the fish. About his day, about how the total amount of severed fingers in the freezer were now up to nine. ...about Sherlock.

Sherlock knew that Mr Fish was John's escape. Of course John would rather talk to a fish with a five-second memory span than a woman with glasses and a clipboard and fifteen-plus years of experience. Or his flatmate. Sure, Sherlock could nip out to the nearest pet shop and buy a new goldfish, but it wouldn t be the same. It wouldn t be Mr Fish.

He heard the front door slam shut.

Sherlock tentatively picked the goldfish up by its tail and clambered over the books and newspapers strewn across the floor towards the window. He pulled himself up onto the desk next to the window, careful not to tread on John s laptop as he d done several times before, and opened the top window. He gave Mr Fish one last side-eyed look, flicked his hand, and Mr Fish was gone. Sherlock shut the window.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock refused to turn around, continuing to stare out of the window. He heard keys being thrown onto the coffee table.

"Everything alright?" Sighing, he turned around.

"Fine, thank you", he said, hopping down from the desk. "How's the uh...umm?" he trailed off as he walked past John and headed towards the kitchen.

"I went to get teabags", John sighed.

"Ah yes. Teabags. Does that mean you want tea?"

"If you're offering!" John scoffed. Sherlock swooshed around in his dressing gown and walked back towards John, not meeting his gaze.

"And what if I am?" he mumbled, taking the box of teabags from John's hand and heading back towards the kitchen. John stood and watched as Sherlock flicked the switch on the kettle to 'on' and tore the plastic wrapping from the teabag box, throwing it on the floor. He then took two mugs from the draining board next to the sink, placing them on the work surface in front of him. He opened the box of teabags, throwing a teabag into each mug. The kettle flicked 'off' to show that it had boiled. Sherlock took the kettle and poured the scalding water into the mugs. He sighed and rested himself on the kitchen counter, staring into the mugs.

John cleared his throat, breaking the silence and snapping Sherlock out of it. Whatever it was.

"Milk? Sugar?" Sherlock asked, heading to the fridge.

"Milk. Thank you", John stood up and started walking towards Sherlock. "I can do my own sugar". As soon as John reached him, Sherlock headed back to the lounge, again not making eye contact. John sighed, looking at the two mugs and the bottle of milk on the counter surface. He put a splash of milk into each drink and two spoonfuls of sugar into one of them. He removed the teabags, gave each drink a stir, and carried them back into the lounge where Sherlock was sitting. John paused in front of Sherlock, mug of tea outstretched for him to take. Nothing. Sherlock was busy picking fluff from his dressing gown to notice. John let out another angered sigh and placed the drink on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

"You're welcome", John mumbled, making his way to his chair with his own cup of tea. He sat down and took a sip, looking up to the mantelpiece where Sherlock's skull was kept. And where Mr Fish was kept. Only he wasn't. The fishbowl was empty. John put his mug on the floor and headed over to the mantelpiece with a confused look on his face. As he passed Sherlock, the younger man closed his eyes, waiting for the questions to start.

"...Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Where's...where's my fish?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock!"

"What, John?" Sherlock snapped, but slowly and silently stood up and turned around so he was standing behind his companion.

"I'm pretty sure I left my fish in its fishbowl this morning. And now he's not there", John picked up the heavy fishbowl, examining its surrounding areas, "And he hasn t jumped out. And your skull hasn't eaten it". He carefully placed the fishbowl back to its usual place. There was a pause as John continued to stare at where his fish should be. "Where's my fish, Sherlock?" Sherlock stood behind John. He contemplated giving his friend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but refrained.

"Your fish died, John". he began. "It...it died". There was nothing more to say.

Another pause.

"...oh". John's voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"If it's any condolence, I'm sure your fish-"

"_Mr Fish_", John hissed.

"_Mr_ Fish lived a happy life".

John shrugged, turning round and slightly pushing past Sherlock to head towards the door.

"He was just a fish, right?" John said as he opened the door, echoing the words Sherlock had said many times during the course of the John-and-Mr-Fish partnership. The door slammed, and John was gone.

Sherlock lowered himself back into his chair, staring at his cup of tea, the sounds of John s footsteps stomping down the stairs echoing around the room. The main door opened and then slammed shut.

Closing his eyes and bracing himself, Sherlock heard John's yells of "Oh god"! as he'd accidentally trodden on Mr Fish's disposed body on the steps of 221b.


End file.
